


Auld Reekie

by Garonne



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21659875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garonne/pseuds/Garonne
Summary: Watson takes Holmes to Edinburgh, his native city, but the case which brought them there also has a dramatic effect on their own lives.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 28
Kudos: 110





	Auld Reekie

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2011 but never posted to AO3.

It was to Sherlock Holmes that the vast majority of the post which arrived at 221b Baker Street was addressed. Aside from my correspondence with the editor of The Strand, I only received occasional letters from the few school and university friends I had kept in touch with, or advertisements from manufacturers of medical equipment who seemed unaware that I was not currently in practice. One morning, however, in early summer 1882 we received for the first time a letter which was addressed to both of us.

Holmes passed it to me across the breakfast table. I stared at the heavy cream-coloured envelope in surprise. I cannot deny that it also gave me a certain ridiculous feeling of pleasure to see our names written thus side-by-side: Dr. J. H. Watson and Mr. S. Holmes.

"It's addressed to you too, Holmes," I said, rather stupidly.

He did not look up from his work of methodically opening his correspondence and sorting it into piles. "Primarily to you, my dear fellow, as you will find when you open it."

"Why do you say that?"

He glanced up briefly. "Really, Watson, I hope you are merely humouring me. Aside from the obvious fact that your name is listed first, although Mr Holmes and Dr Watson sounds so much better..." I let that pass without comment. "... there is the Edinburgh postmark, and the fact that you received a Christmas card addressed in the same handwriting."

"I did?" Without further ado, I ripped open the envelope and looked at the foot of the letter. "I say! It's from Alistair Gordon."

"You will never develop your eye if you persist in cheating thus," Holmes said, but mildly, since he was clearly awaiting with curiosity my exposition of the contents of the letter.

I began to read aloud:

_My dear Watson,_

_I do hope your friend Mr. Holmes will forgive my having taken the liberty of adding his name to the envelope of this missive. In the event of your being away from home, I trust he will nevertheless have opened and read this letter, for Mildred is in such a taking, and his help would be greatly appreciated._

Holmes interrupted. "Who is this fellow, Watson? Besides the obvious: that he is Scottish, fairly well off, and neurotic."

I smiled to myself, for I must admit that seeing Holmes betray a flash of jealousy was a guilty pleasure of mine. In this case, clearly, he did not appreciate my being anyone else's 'dear Watson'.

I hastened to reassure him. "It is true that Gordon did always insist on planning carefully for every eventuality, however remote and unlikely. I don't know that I would medically class him as a neurotic, however. In any case, he is an old friend from my Edinburgh school days, now a barrister, and quite rich, as you say - I suppose you got that from the stationery? I was his best man, as a matter of fact, when he married the Mildred he refers to. They were childhood sweethearts."

"I see," said Holmes, mollified. "Please go on."

I resumed reading:

_Indeed, when I have placed all the facts before you, I am sure you will appreciate the urgency of my appeal. The situation is thus: Two days ago, upon coming downstairs in the morning, we discovered a man lying dead in our hallway, shot through the heart. We had never seen him before in our lives, and his presence in the house remains a mystery._

_The back door stood open, although the lock had not been forced. There were no valuables missing from the house. The constabulary are of the opinion that at least two men broke into our house with the intention of burglary, having somehow picked the lock or obtained keys. Subsequently, for whatever reason, a fight broke out between them, and one shot the other and then took fright and fled._

_Notwithstanding its plausibility, Mildred and I are not entirely convinced by this explanation, for the dead man seemed soberly dressed and respectable-looking, even if not particularly well-off. In addition, although no tools of the burglar's trade were discovered on his person, his pockets did contain a few silver and copper coins. I do not see why his supposed accomplice in burglary would take the time to retrieve any tools, while leaving the money._

_Mildred is of the same mind as I am, and has hardly slept a wink since this terrible event. This is why I take the liberty of extending an invitation to come North to you and your friend Mr. Holmes. My dear Watson, please do urge him to bring his skills to bear on this problem._

_It would be pleasant to see you in Edinburgh again in any case, my dear chap._

_Yours,_

_Alistair Gordon_

I folded the letter back up, raising an eyebrow at Holmes. He returned my look with a smile.

"I must say that the thought of investigating your boyhood haunts holds a definite appeal. You know I am constantly avid for any opportunity to increase my encyclopedic knowledge on the subject of John H. Watson M.D."

"And the case?"

He shrugged. "It is impossible to say anything at present. It may well be that the police are correct in their assumptions, be they ever so dense as their London colleagues. Your friend does give the impression in his letter of being slightly high-strung, and burglars can be dressed as respectably as any man. Nevertheless, it would ungallant in the extreme of us to ignore the sufferings of poor Mrs. Gordon." He stood up from the breakfast table. "You will wire your friend to say we are coming, and buy two tickets on the sleeper to Edinburgh tonight. I have one or two other purchases I wish to make."

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

That afternoon, when I returned to Baker Street with two second-class sleeper tickets in my pocket, I found Holmes pouring over an Ordnance Survey map of Edinburgh. A cheap guidebook to the city lay open on the desk beside him. I was surprised, for I had never seen my friend prepare with such thoroughness for a case whose interest he had not yet even determined, and I said as much.

He put out a hand to pull me to his side while he went on studying the map. "It is not every day I have the opportunity to visit the town which formed my Watson," he said. "Indeed, knowing what I now do of this gruesome city, it seems I have to thank God you even managed to reach the age of eighteen, and escape with your life."

I laughed. "Well, Holmes, if you will insist on buying a penny-dreadful guidebook, instead of one of those excellent brochures by Mr. Thomas Cook, you are bound to finish with a biassed view of the city."

"I have no interest in learning which architect designed which particular hideous building, or how many times Her Majesty has visited," he said absently, underlining a paragraph in red ink.

I leant forward to take a closer look. "I suppose you are reading about Burke and Hare, the grave-robbers, and their ilk?"

He was already deep in the world of murderers, hangmen and hauntings again, and did not answer. I kissed the top of his head, and went to pack a small suitcase for myself, and another for Holmes. When I returned to the sitting room, he was busy in the corner of the room where his chemistry equipment was set up. I hoped that he was closing down his experiments, and making everything safe for an extended absence.

"Dinner at Simpson's?" he asked without looking round.

I hesitated. "I was rather planning on staying here tonight, if you don't mind, old chap."

That made him look around sharply. "By yourself?"

"No, of course not. I had intended for both of us to stay in."

"Fine," he said, already turning back to the Leibig condenser he was cleaning. "As you prefer."

I tidied the papers on my desk, and put my latest unfinished manuscript into a paper folder along with some blank sheets to write on in the train. Then I sat down in my armchair, idly flicking through an old edition of The Lancet, my mind on other things.

Suddenly Holmes' voice emerged from his corner, making me jump. "What is it, Watson?"

I turned to face him. He was draining some sort of nasty brown liquid from a burette into a basin, and continued to speak without looking at me:

"You evidently have something on your mind, some matter which is related to your preference regarding this evening's plans. It's not the first time you have made such a request, with that particular tone of voice and that particular look on your face."

I prevaricated. "Sometimes it's pleasant to simply stay in... "

"Watson," he said in a warning tone, facing me now, his glassware abandoned.

I took a deep breath, and plunged into the gathering storm. "It's nothing, really, I assure you. It's merely - sometimes, when we're in public, and I touch your shoulder without thinking, or smile at you in a particular fashion, or - oh, a thousand other unconscious gestures! - you look at me in a way that turns me cold. And this, even though in many cases they are things I have been doing since we first met, and things to which you never objected, before Christmas."

He frowned, but to my surprise he seemed more thoughtful than irritated. "Before Christmas, I must admit," he said slowly, "such actions on your part were what fuelled my dreams and kindled my hopes. But before Christmas, we had nothing to hide but unspoken fantasies. I do not think I am being unreasonable now in recommending caution."

"I know. I'm not criticising you, Holmes. Merely trying to explain myself."

He was still staring at me, his keen eyes fixed with intensity on my face. "That's not all, is it?"

His assumption was perfectly correct. I had not voiced my true nightmare, which was that someday I would be too careless, and he would become too impatient, or too scared, and leave me.

But I said only: "Your basin is running over, Holmes."

He exclaimed, and turned back to quickly twist the burette's tap, before the receptacle below it could overflow any further.

In the event, we spent the evening curled up in my armchair, which was the broader of the two. With Holmes' arms around me, I read through a significant portion of my latest sea novel, while he devoured a densely written German text illustrated with rather gruesome pictures.

After a few hours, I noticed that Holmes was no longer turning any pages of his own book, and that his gaze was directed towards the pages of mine.

"You're reading my novel!" I exclaimed.

He started, but did not deny it. "And perfectly dreadful it is too. No wonder you cannot manage to master any skills of any use, when you are cluttering your head with such rubbish."

I could not help but be hurt. Instead of pointing out my status as a qualified and experienced doctor, I said in a cold voice: "Nobody was forcing you to read it."

He closed his own book, and placed one hand over mine. "I want to be as close to you as humanly possible," he said simply, "and how can I be any closer than if we are reading the same page, our minds thinking the same thoughts?"

He took my breath away. It was one of those rare glimpses of his soul that made up for every unconsciously cruel comment or slight his brutally honest nature inflicted on me. Indeed, they made up for everything a thousand times over, without difficulty.

Holmes never seemed to notice when he had said something earth-shattering. On this occasion, he slid himself out from behind me, and stretched languidly, treating me to an excellent view of his long lean back. Still overwhelmed by his words, I reflected with regret that that night we would be sharing our second-class carriage with four others.

Holmes had clearly been thinking something similar, for he said slowly: "One day, Watson, I shall be rich, and we shall travel alone together in first class, and hire whole suites of rooms at Le Meurice, and visit all the opera houses of Europe, and I shall take you out to dinner every evening."

"Not if I grow rich first," I said.

He turned back to look at me, still curled up in my armchair, and gave me an amused look. "It's rather more likely to be me, you know."

I smiled back, not in the least offended. He would have found it difficult to offend me, at that moment. He disappeared into his bedroom, and I tried to return to the adventures of the plucky midshipman abandoned on a South Sea island. After a while Holmes reappeared, went to his suitcase and opened it, probably checking that I had remembered to include his lockpick's set.

"One day, Watson," he said over his shoulder, "I shall take you to visit the settings of my own youth. I spent a large part of my formative years on the Continent, you know."

This caused me to raise my eyes sharply to him once more. Holmes rarely spoke of the future, or of what part he saw me playing in it, and now he had just done so twice in a matter of ten minutes. I did not have long to ponder on this, however, for Holmes was already throwing me my coat and donning his own.

I followed him down the stairs and out onto the street, the excitement of the journey already mounting in me, and my nightmares of earlier in the evening entirely forgotten. I could not think of anything better at that moment than returning to my native city with the man who loved me by my side.

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

Sherlock Holmes' hand rested on my knee, but I did not feel in the least bit slighted that his head was turned away from me and he was paying me no attention at all, for after all, it was my own city of Edinburgh which he was drinking in through the hansom cab window.

On the one hand, we had the breath-taking expanse which was the south side of Edinburgh's main thoroughfare, where the ground all along that side of the road fell away sharply to lush green pleasure gardens and then rose steeply to the lofty spires and towers of the university's New College, the Bank of Scotland and the imposing mass of the Castle, all posed high on the sheer volcanic cliffs which rose from the valley separating us from them.

Holmes, naturally, was looking out the other window, absorbed in the bustle of shops and people: office clerks and bankers on their way to work, street-hawkers already at their pitches, and sundry other ruffians and gentlefolk.

"There are as many pickpockets here as in London, I perceive," said Holmes, in a voice which I am sorry to say must be described as satisfied. "However, it remains to be seen whether the criminals more worthy of my attention are equally as inventive as their southern counterparts."

As we travelled further from the train station, and penetrated deeper into the neighbourhood of private squares and magnificent town-houses where the Gordons lived, I attempted to draw my friend's attention to some landmarks of interest. Holmes did not seem to be listening, however, and I surmised that the Duke of Moray's residence and birthplace of Sir Walter Scott fell into the same category of irrelevant information as facts about the Solar System.

Ten minutes more brought us to our destination. Mildred Gordon was a little plumper than I remembered, with the tired, shadowed eyes of three sleepless nights. My old school-friend Gordon himself was already grey and balding, although in his early thirties, scarcely older than I.

"I trust your journey was not too uncomfortable," he fussed, while his wife poured tea and attempted the impossible task of urging biscuits on Holmes. "I find travelling to be such a stress myself. One never knows whether one will misplace one's tickets, or forget a piece of luggage on the train, or alight at the wrong station..."

"Quite," said Holmes, while his gaze flickered around the room, absorbing every detail. I devoutly hoped that if he did consider my two friends as members of his list of suspects, something which was perfectly likely, then he would make no awkward comment to betray this fact to them, until such time as he had finally seen fit to clear them of suspicion.

I had not seen the Gordons in almost a decade, but somehow it seemed indecent to dawdle too long over tea while the dead man still lay unidentified and unclaimed in the Royal Infirmary's morgue. Holmes, too, was clearly impatient to make a start. As soon as I judged that Gordon would be satisfied we were sufficiently rested from our supposedly harrowing journey, I suggested a visit to the scene of the gruesome discovery.

Holmes clucked his tongue in irritation upon seeing the well-scrubbed hallway floor and the thoroughly beaten-out rug. He spent scarcely a minute looking around, before demanding to see where all the keys in the house were kept. One set lay in a drawer in the hallway, and Gordon indicated the key to the back door, which had been found open on the morning after the murder. Holmes examined the key closely, and to my mind it seemed that he relied far more on the sense of touch than his eyes in his examination, but whatever he was seeking he did not seem to find it.

"The other set is in the kitchen somewhere," Gordon said. "I'm not quite sure where. Margaret will show us."

He rang the bell, and the maid who had served us our tea reappeared. She was short and portly, and I thought she would have appeared quite amiable, were her eyes not red-rimmed from crying. I wondered what had happened to upset her so.

She led us down the back stairs into the kitchen, and pointed silently to a bunch of keys which hung from a hook by the back door. Holmes pounced on them, identified the correct one immediately, and exclaimed in satisfaction.

"Excellent," he said, replacing the bunch. "I think that will be all for the moment, Mr. Gordon. Now I must have time to reflect."

.. .. .. .. .. .. ..

Holmes was standing by the window, smoking, when I joined him in his room.

He smiled fondly at me. "Well, my dear fellow, let me hear your deductions so far."

I hesitated. There did not seem to be a great deal to say. "The maid, Margaret, appeared to be in quite a state. Do you think it is of any relevance?"

This earned me another smile. "I'm glad you noticed that, Watson. Not that it was very easy to miss, but nevertheless your Alistair Gordon seemed completely oblivious. Either that, or he simply does not care." He tapped out his pipe into an ashtray on the dresser and went back to frowning out the window. "As usual, Watson, I am reduced to trying to pick up the start of a trail that has already long since been washed away, dried out and tidied up. Sometimes it seems to me that my clients deliberately wait to call me, in order to make the life of a consulting detective as difficult as possible."

I smiled at this familiar complaint, and went to put my arms about his waist, but he sprang away.

"Holmes - "

He put his hands in his pockets and frowned at me.

I glanced back at the door, but it remained closed, as I had taken care to ensure after entering.

For a moment we regarded each other across the space which separated us, myself still not quite sure what was going through his mind, until he spoke again, choosing his words with deliberation:

"You must believe me, Watson, when I say that I do not mean to repulse you heartlessly, nor provoke unfounded judgements in you regarding my nature, which you have in the past described as unfeeling. But I do nonetheless urge you to imagine the look on the face of your upright friend, were he to witness the scene you attempted to enact."

I gritted my teeth. "He is not here, and not likely to walk in at just this moment."

"It is not a risk I am willing to take." He turned away from me. "This will never change, you know, Watson," he said in a low voice. "We shall never be free."

His tone made me long even more than ever to take him in my arms, but I remained where I was, gazing at him helplessly.

Suddenly Holmes turned back toward me. His head bent, warm lips brushed mine, and then he was already striding to the door, grabbing his hat.

"Come, Watson. I have some more questions I wish to put to your Mr. Gordon."

.. .. .. .. .. .. ..

Holmes stood in the middle of the large living room, and span round once on his heel, taking in everything from the thick new carpet to the glistening white plaster-moulding on the high ceiling.

"How recent was the construction of this row of houses?" he demanded.

We were in the living room of the Mackays, a couple who featured among the acquaintances of the Gordons. Upon hearing that they had recently suffered a burglary, Holmes had insisted on being taken to visit them. I did not quite see the connection with our case, as the burglary here appeared to be perfectly straightforward. No mysterious bodies had been found the following morning, and many items of value taken. The only connection was that the door used as a point of entry in this case had also not been forced, but this did not seem very conclusive to me, as there was certainly no shortage of lock-picks in Edinburgh.

I knew from my guidebook that this crescent of houses was the latest addition to Edinburgh's magnificent New Town, but I left it to Mr. Mackay to answer Holmes' question.

"Less than a year ago," he said readily. "We have only lived here a few months, like most of our neighbours."

"We haven't even finished with the furnishings," Mrs. Mackay put in. "That empty corner there will hold a cabinet, for example - although the thieves took everything I intended to display in it," she added in a disconsolate voice.

Holmes had evidently now seen all he wished to, for he made his adieus. I followed his example, and we stepped out into the street.

"Where to now?" I asked.

"I would like to know exactly how many burglaries there have been in this area since its construction," Holmes said slowly. "I'm not sure how willing the Edinburgh constabulary will be to cooperate with a stranger from England, however. Nevertheless, I plan to make the attempt. You, I know, have not yet answered an invitation from two old friends to spend the afternoon drinking port at a golf club and talking about how you would all play a round, were the weather a little more clement. You should accept the invitation."

"You could come with me," I offered. "We could go to the police first, and then - "

"I cannot think of anything I would enjoy less."

I was taken aback by his vehemence. He saw my expression, and elaborated:

"I must admit to being somewhat mystified by your enjoyment of time spent in the company of your friends. Or should I say rather - those people you call your friends, although they know nothing whatsoever about the most important aspect of your life, and would instantly sever connections, were they ever to discover it."

Sherlock Holmes was far from being modest, but he spoke the exact truth, of course, in describing my relations with him as the most important part of my life.

Before I could compose a response, he had already hailed a cab. "Go ahead, enjoy your afternoon, my dear fellow. I promise you, nothing interesting will happen until tonight, and perhaps not even then."

.. .. .. .. .. ..

I spent a pleasant day talking of old times, and returned to the Gordons' in time for dinner, arriving not long before Holmes. Our hosts seemed much happier now that Holmes was attending to their case, although if he had made any progress during the afternoon he had not shared it with the rest of us.

The Gordons had also invited some acquaintances around, and we had a pleasant after-dinner conversation. After some time I looked about me and noticed that Holmes was nowhere to be seen. Most likely he had simply tired of making polite conversation with the bourgeoisie of the Lowlands and slipped discreetly away.

However, I had not forgotten his hint that afternoon that the night could hold an interesting development in the case. Excusing myself, I stepped outside, and had the good fortune to glimpse the back of Holmes' tall figure, disappearing down the steps to the kitchen. I raced after him, and finally caught up with him in the dark stable lane behind the house.

He was not in the least surprised to see me, of course. He caught my arm, and pulled me into the deepest shadows beside the wall. Following his gaze down the long shadowy lane, I saw a short stout female form disappear around the corner.

Holmes put his lips to my ear, although there was no one around to overhear us. It was simply something he took every possible opportunity to do. "That was Margaret Donnelly, the maid."

"She who had been crying?"

"Exactly. I propose to follow her. Get your revolver, and meet me back here as quickly as possible. In the meantime I shall fetch our coats, for I fear I am not as hardened to this cold northern air as you." He saw my hesitation, and interpreted it correctly. "Never fear, Watson, I already know her destination, I merely didn't know that her assignation was tonight. Look." He held up a crumpled piece of paper to the light from the kitchen window, and I read in an almost illegible scrawl:

_Greyfriars Kirkyard, 11 o'clock_

"I shall be as quick as I can," I whispered.

Five minutes later we were in a hansom cab, rattling across the cobblestones of Edinburgh city. We quickly left behind the imposing sweeps of beautiful sandstone town-houses, crescents and private gardens of the New Town, and plunged into the narrow, twisting, grimy streets of the Old Town. The cab left us on the Royal Mile, at Holmes' request, and we continued more discreetly on foot. I was amused to find that Holmes' anticipative study of the map of Edinburgh had been sufficiently thorough for him to be able to lead the way, and I was happy to indulge his penchant for flaunting his knowledge.

It was easy to understood why Margaret Donnelly's mysterious correspondent had chosen the graveyard as a meeting place, for it was dark and completely deserted. As Holmes and I installed ourselves behind a sepulchre not far from the gate, we heard a church bell strike quarter to eleven.

The light of gas-lamps from the street only reached the area near the kirk, and our hiding place was steeped in darkness. The night air was more reminiscent of January than July, and the graveyard was cold and damp. I shifted uncomfortably, feeling a twinge in my leg.

All of that was driven from my mind as warm breath fell suddenly on my face, and then Holmes was kissing me fiercely, his hands gripping my shoulders as though he would never let go. After a moment's shock I responded just as strongly, pressing myself up against him. I slid one hand inside his cape, trying to get as close as possible to the warmth of his skin. I could not tell how long we stood there, clinging to each other. Holmes was like a man who has found water after a long drought, and I am sure I appeared in much the same light to him.

Finally we broke apart, remembering our mission in that dark place.

"It seems the dead do not object to us," Holmes said dryly, his hands still holding me close. "They're keeping their silence, at any rate."

I felt fingers on my breast and Holmes withdrew my pocket watch and held it out briefly to a patch of moonlight to read it. He swore softly. "Three minutes to eleven. That was all too brief an interval."

His breath was still coming in short gasps, and even as he straightened and turned towards the gate, he left his hand resting on the small of my back.

Less than a minute later, we saw a shadow slip through the gate, and come to stand by the side door of the kirk. I felt from the slight change in Holmes' stance that he had seen it too. There was little to distinguish, only that the man was small and slight, and muffled against the cold.

Shortly after that, Margaret Donnelly arrived, still out of breath from her long march on foot across town. She glanced around nervously before joining the man in the kirk doorway. I was sure that the choice of the graveyard as meeting place had not been hers.

Only snippets of the conversation reached our ears, but enough to determine that it revolved around the topic of the 'two men from London' and 'that foul-up the other night.'

The majority of the conversation was dominated by the man, while the girl listened with her head down, her stance mulish, but at one point something seemed to needle her, and she exclaimed: "Murderer! Why should I - "

Her interlocutor had raised his voice now too. "Don't you cross me, my girl. Remember, you have another life to protect. Remember your dear - "

The girl cut him off, her voice carrying clearly in her anger. "Dinnae dare mention his name!"

The man laughed this off in the most horrid manner imaginable, and finished the conversation by handing over a small cloth-wrapped package. The maid tucked it under her cloak, and hurried away, followed a few moments later by the man she had labelled a murderer.

Holmes took my arm and drew me with him. We trailed the man out of the graveyard, then down into the dark, dangerous hell which was the neighbourhood in the shadow of the Castle. We followed him down a narrow flight of steps, along a grimy, unlit, stinking close, and into a passageway which led under the floors of the buildings above. All around us we could hear the teeming sounds of life: voices raised in anger, babies wailing, dishes and glasses clattering, but the back streets were deserted, and we saw no-one but the shadowy figure of the man ahead.

We emerged from the passageway into a small, dingy courtyard, lit only by the small amount of moonlight that managed to filter down through the gap between the rooftops far above. Our mark was nowhere to be seen. I came to a sudden stop, snatching Holmes by the arm and pulling him back into the passageway.

"Wait a moment," I murmured before stepping forward cautiously, my revolver in my hand, and all my senses on alert.

Suddenly I understood what I had already sensed to be wrong, when the shadow that should not have been there moved. I dived back towards Holmes, but not quickly enough. Pain seared through my shoulder, and the world spun around me as I sank to the ground.

.. .. .. .. .. ..

The first thing I became aware of was my dear friend's voice, snapping out orders in a harsh, strained caricature of his usual tones. Upon opening my eyes, the first thing my gaze encountered was his face, which was deadly white, his eyes blazing with fear and anger.

"Don't try to move, my love," he said in a gentler voice, seeing my return to consciousness. He was kneeling beside me, pressing something into my shoulder, which burned unbearably. It was night-time, and the ground beneath me was cold, damp, mossy stone. Slowly, memories returned to me of the late-night assignation we had spied upon in the kirkyard, and the subsequent chase through the town, culminating in my being shot in this grimy courtyard.

"I've lost a lot of blood," I said vaguely.

"Hush, love." He smoothed back the hair from my cold, sweating forehead. "I don't think it's as bad as it feels."

His haggard face betrayed the lie in his words, however.

He twisted around to snap at a person or persons unseen. "Where's that damned doctor?"

"I am a doctor," I wanted to say, but it did not seem to make a great deal of sense, given the present circumstances, so I held my tongue, and let myself slip back down into the welcoming darkness.

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

When I woke I was lying between clean sheets, and someone was throwing open the curtains. Cold, bright sunlight flooded into the room. I blinked for a while, and finally succeeded in distinguishing Margaret Donnelly standing by the window. She gave me a wan smile, and I noted that her eyes were red-rimmed once more.

"I'm so glad to see you're awake, sir," she cried, with surprising emphasis. "I'm so terribly, terribly sorry about what happened."

I was not sure how much she knew about the events the previous night had dealt us after her departure from the kirkyard, but she certainly seemed to have taken something to heart. A host of questions flooded into my head regarding her covert meeting the previous evening with the man who subsequently shot me. I did not quite yet feel up to giving her a coherent quizzing, however, so I instead raised myself up in bed and took in my surroundings.

I was in the my bedroom at the Gordons', and by the light shining through the window, I estimated the hour to be close to midday.

"I suppose I have only been out cold for one night?" I asked. "Not a whole day and a night, that is to say?"

Margaret was still staring at me, clearly on the verge of tears again. I was beginning to wonder whether that were her habitual expression. She was saved from answering by the sound of the door opening.

Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway, the most peculiar expression on his face as he looked down at me. He came forward to stand at the foot of the bed, still in silence, while the maid excused herself and slipped out.

I eyed Holmes warily. "The doctor's been, I suppose? Another doctor, that is to say." The answer was already obvious from my professionally bandaged shoulder, but I was merely producing sound, any utterance serving to break this odd, tense silence.

Holmes nodded. "Last night, or rather in the early hours of this morning. He will call again this afternoon."

He was still standing much too far away from me, his face whiter and more haggard than could be accounted for simply by the sleepless night he had most likely passed.

I held out my hand. "Come over here, my dear fellow."

He looked down at my outstretched hand, but remained standing where he was.

I frowned. "Holmes, what is the matter? If you are in a taking because I was hurt again on one of your cases, I assure you, it's nothing serious. Why, if I had stayed here and gone on drinking whiskey, I'd probably be feeling much worse just now!" I laughed, but Holmes did not.

"I know," he said shortly. "It's merely a flesh wound. The doctor will certainly authorise you to leave your bed already this afternoon."

"Then what - "

Holmes spoke at the same time. "I've come to apologise."

I stared at him in confusion.

He went on in a low voice. "I behaved unforgivably last night. I don't know how much of it you were conscious for, but unfortunately there were many other perfectly conscious witnesses - which is the problem, of course." He began to pace up and down the room. "I lost my head completely. All I knew at the time was that you were bleeding and unconscious, and I could not bear not to cradle you in my arms. I don't even remember clearly - I only remember how terrible you looked, and how terrified I was. I'm sure I used several incriminating terms of endearment out loud, fool that I am!"

I wished that he would come over and seat himself on the bed, so that I could put my arms around him, so miserable and angry he looked. "Please don't torture yourself so, my dear man! I assure you, I would have reacted in exactly the same manner."

For a moment, his face softened, and he made a move as if to come to me, although he stopped himself. "I flatter myself that that is true," he said softly.

"Well then - "

He resumed his pacing. "You know perfectly well what the problem is, Watson. On this occasion we were fortunate. The only witnesses to my shocking indiscretion were more interested in the sourcing of their next meal than in the antics of two complete strangers. Next time we shall be under the eyes of your friends the Gordons, or a Scotland Yard inspector."

I frowned. "It's not a crime to be in love."

"Oh, that's very credible." His lips twisted in a sneer, but I knew it was not directed at me. "Very credible indeed. So these two men are madly in love, and have shared rooms for almost a year, but it's all perfectly innocent?"

I had no answer to give to that, so I stayed silent, my stomach turning over inside me.

Holmes walked to the window and stood looking out, his back to me. "Thus, as I stated, I have come to apologise. Firstly, to apologise for my reckless behaviour, even though I know you already understand and forgive it. Secondly, to apologise in advance for something I fear you will neither understand nor forgive."

A cold feeling of dread was beginning to seep through my chest, as the inklings of what Holmes had in mind started to become clear to me.

He still had his back to me as he went on: "I love you, Watson, so much so that it renders me egoistical. I can no longer justify risking your liberty and good name thus, simply to gratify my own irrepressible desires. Such a scene as I enacted last night can never have the opportunity to occur again."

My chest was painfully constricted. I struggled to comprehend the exact significance of his words. Did he mean to suggest that I could no longer accompany him on his cases? Even worse, that one of us should move out of Baker Street? Or even - my heart clenched at the mere thought - could he possibly be suggesting that we should never see each other again?

"What are you trying to say exactly, Holmes?" I asked carefully.

He turned around at last, and the dead frozen expression on his face stabbed me to the heart. "I don't quite know myself yet," he said slowly. "I spoke without having thought the matter through, something I do not often do. But I could not hear your voice without coming into the room, and I could not face you, and yet hide what was in my mind."

I attempted to choose my words carefully, something which was not facile when all I longed for was to grasp him to me, and hold him without speaking. "Aren't you overreacting in the heat of the moment? What precisely does this change? We have always known the risk we run, after all, and I, for one, maintain that you are afraid of something that will never occur." Unable to touch him, I tried to pour all of my feelings into my words. "What's more, it is perfectly ridiculous to describe yourself as egoistical. There are two of us in this, Holmes, and I assure you, you are not risking my name and liberty, as you put it, without my heartfelt consent. Not that it is a risk that weighs heavily on my mind, when the happiness we bring each other so easily outweighs it."

He smiled bitterly. "Ah, but then you are an optimist, my dear Watson." His eyes were bright, and pain was written in every line of his rigid stance.

My mind raced, scrabbling desperately for the words to derail his mind from these inexorable tracks, but I knew that I could not, for that would have been the equivalent of convincing him he did not love me.

Finally he looked down at his watch. "I am going out now."

"Holmes - " I held out my hand to him again, but he shook his head.

He said in a cold, even voice which was entirely at odds with his anguished eyes: "I rather think we should begin as we mean to go on, don't you?" Saying these word, he walked out.

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

I decided it would not be advisable to lie there feeling miserable any longer, and determined to rise. I checked my wound cautiously, as well as I could while being the patient as well as the doctor, and gave myself permission to quit my bed.

I appeared in the drawing room half an hour later, dressed for going out. Mildred Gordon was inclined to protest, reiterating that Mr Holmes had instructed her to oversee my well-being. Fortunately for me, my fellow practitioner appeared at this juncture, he who had treated me in the early hours of that morning, and pronounced me entirely fit.

Having won my freedom, I was not certain what use to make of it. I stood for a moment in the hallway in my hat and coat, attempting to think of some agreeable pursuit with which I could while away a long afternoon, whilst my mind returned continually to Holmes, his cold words of dismissal and his heartfelt expression of misery. I heard a door open behind me, and turned to see Margaret Donnelly crossing the hallway, her arms full of clean linen. She stopped, seeming to hesitate as if she wished to broach some subject with me, and I summoned up the will to give her an encouraging smile, despite it being at odds with everything I felt inside.

"You look to be in better form now, I'm glad to see. Is everything all right?"

She blushed. "Yes, sir, thank you sir."

"You weren't looking so well this morning."

"Oh, I've hay-fever, sir."

I was quite sure that was not the only explanation for her red-rimmed eyes, but there was possibly some truth in the statement. It was indeed the season for such an affliction.

"If I can help at all - I have my medical bag with me."

"Thank you, sir. It's very kind of you, but I'm fine." She looked down at the pile of sheets, biting her lip. "Your friend, Mr Holmes - he offered to help me too. Not with hay-fever, of course, but with - " She came to a confused halt. "He seems a good man too. Is he - can I - ?"

"I trust him with my life," I said firmly.

She seemed to come to a sudden decision. "He said he would be at St Giles' Cathedral at one o'clock. I cannae - it's my afternoon off but I have to be elsewhere. Could you give him a note for me, sir?"

"Of course."

Having placed the pile of linens at the foot of the stairs, she took a sheet of paper from the hall table, and wrote something in a slow, careful hand. She folded up the note, and gave it to me. "Thank you sir," she said and hurried away, as if she were afraid she would change her mind.

On the sheet of paper was printed just one line:

_5 Wyndmire Close_

I had no idea what to make of this, but was nonetheless determined to investigate. Fortunately I was already familiar with the location of the street, and lost no time in directing my way thither.

It was some ten minutes short of one o'clock when I reached Wyndmire Close, which was in the Old Town, in the shadow of the looming hulk of rock from which the Castle rose. Number 5 was a perfectly innocuous cabinet maker's establishment. I walked past twice, debating whether to go inside and investigate further, but my musings were interrupted by the sound of the one o'clock gun from the Castle above, and I knew I would have to hurry to reach the Cathedral before Holmes abandoned the rendezvous.

I was relieved to see him still there when I arrived, standing on the Cathedral steps. He came down the steps towards me, his face unfathomable, but there was no mistaking the sincerity in his voice when he said:

"I am very glad to see you up and about so soon, Watson."

"Yet not so glad to see me quite so soon?" I said, not bitterly, but in a matter-of-fact tone.

He winced visibly. "I admit that the resolutions of whose soundness I have spent the past two hours trying to convince myself are threatened by the mere sight of your person. I should be thinking about the case, for I am at a critical juncture, and yet I cannot keep anything in my mind for more than three seconds at a time but you. Watson, I - " He stopped, making a quick, despairing gesture with one thin hand. "The high street is no place for such a conversation."

Holmes was as white as he had been earlier, and his eyes had not left my face since I arrived. He seemed to be wondering whether I would stalk away or punch him in the face. I did neither, of course.

Although I had no intention of letting him adhere to his bleak resolutions, I thought that for the moment, I should turn the topic of the conversation before one of us uttered something foolhardy. "So you mean to say you have almost cleared up this matter at the Gordons?"

He took the cue. "I know almost all of the facts of the case. Only one detail remains to be determined before the whole matter is clear before me. That will only be the commencement of the work, however, for I still have no way at all of proving the matter satisfactorily in a court of law."

"I might very well have that final detail," I said, handing him the note from Margaret Donnelly.

He unfolded it quickly, and his face lit up. "Excellent."

"Wyndmire Close is not far from the Castle; it connects Grindlay Street and Spittal Street," I said helpfully.

"Thank you, Watson," he murmured, still studying the paper. Surely he could not already know the map of Edinburgh well enough to be aware of that fact! On the other hand, I would not put any feat past that great brain.

"It is the address of a cabinet maker's," I added.

He looked up sharply. "You have already been there?"

"I merely walked past. I assure you, I didn't go inside or do anything foolish. It appears to be a perfectly ordinary establishment."

"Very well." He crumpled the note up in one hand, his eyes abstracted in thought.

I ventured a question. "So the maid Margaret Donnelly is deeply involved?"

"Yes indeed. This morning I managed to convince her to divulge almost everything which I had not already guessed. She held back at the last, still in fear of her life, but it seems she finally acquiesced - that address that you brought was the final detail I required."

"So the cabinet maker is also in some way relevant to the case?"

"My dear Watson! The cabinet-maker is the murderer, of course!"

Rather affronted, I protested that I could hardly have been expected to know that, having nothing to go on but the man's address and his trade.

"Precisely. He is a cabinet maker. Why, his profession is central to the entire conundrum!"

This did not enlighten me any further. After all, the man in the Gordons' hallway had not been stabbed with a wood-chisel or any such instrument, but shot through the heart.

Holmes was scowling, his dark brows drawn together in frustration. "I know everything now, and yet still the monster eludes me. It is absolutely imperative that I find some way of trapping that fiend. I cannot bear to see him walk free a day longer."

The strength of the epitaphs he applied to the man surprised me. "You mean to say that he is more than just a burglar, then? More, even, than a burglar who has killed once in the heat of the moment?"

"The mainstay of his trade, if we can put it in such terms, is burglary. But he is doing something far more cruel and horrible than merely depriving the rich of their wealth. He is at the centre of a web filled with poor trapped flies like Margaret Donnelly, who must jump at his every command, their lives no longer their own.

"I have no doubt that were the police to raid his shop, they would find evidence enough to at least convict him of dealing in stolen goods. But that is not enough of a punishment to satisfy me, or to free his victims from their living hell. Only a murder charge will be enough to take him out of their lives for good, but I cannot see my way to proving his guilt in that matter, without ruining innocent lives."

He paused, still frowning. "There must be a solution to this conundrum, but I cannot for the life of me think of it."

"If you wish me to leave you alone, Holmes - "

"No, please - " He stopped. "That is, as you wish. I perfectly understand it if you would rather not be in my company at the moment."

"I prefer to stay," I said firmly.

He stared down at me, as intently as if I were a footprint or a scribbled cipher. It was a gaze I had learnt to take as a compliment. Finally he said abruptly:

"Have you eaten?"

We repaired to a small, quiet public house, where Holmes drank tea while I ordered some of the hearty Scottish fare for which I was at times nostalgic since relocating to England.

Although I kept my attention concentrated on my plate, my mind still distinctly unsettled, I could feel his intense gaze on me throughout my meal.

"Really, Holmes, you will put me off my lunch if you keep on staring at me in that manner."

He blinked. "I beg your pardon, Watson. The fact is, I can scarcely believe you are sitting here. I had rather thought you would be furious."

"I am, but not at you."

His hand twitched, as though he longed to reach out and take mine. "You are one in a million, Watson, and I am a fool. And yet I cannot change the way I am." His hand clenched convulsively on the table, in a fierce though restrained display of anger such as I rarely saw from him.

I leant across the table to him and said in a low voice: "If you think I am going to give you up that easily, and for such feeble reasons, you are gravely mistaken. I have not spoken my last word on the subject, but I shan't do so here. Let us talk about this cabinet maker - Brodie is his name, if we can believe the sign above his shop."

He took a deep breath. "He does not make for such a pleasant topic either. Indeed, I find it unbearable to know that we are sitting here helplessly, and all the while that villain is making his preparations for tonight."

I stared at him. "So you know when his next burglary will be! And where as well, I suppose?"

He hesitated, already seeming to divine my thoughts and not finding them to his liking, but finally nodded.

"In that case, my dear fellow, our task is simple. All we have to do is be present in the house at the time of that next burglary, along with the police. I shall show myself, he will recognise me and most likely panic and attempt to shoot me, the way I suppose he did when he startled the man in the Gordons' hallway - though what he was doing there I still don't understand. Then we shall have him for attempted murder, which will see him hang."

Holmes shook his head impatiently. "The idea had already occurred to me, of course. But I will not hear of it."

"Isn't that for me to decide, Holmes? And it must indeed be me: he is far more likely to panic at the sight of me than that of anyone else. If you think it will work, then my mind is quite made up. I shall be on the alert, and I certainly shan't let myself be shot. I am not afraid. And we simply cannot allow him to go on terrorising people, as you say he does, if it be in our power to stop him."

He stared at me in amazement. "You make this incredibly courageous offer, without knowing any of the details, any of the reasons that make it worthwhile - "

"You know them, and I trust you."

The expression on his face was worth putting myself in the line of fire a thousand times.

I called for the tab. "We are going to the police next, Holmes."

He did not protest, and so we paid a visit to the senior members of Edinburgh's constabulary, with whom Holmes turned out to have already become quite friendly. He spent a good two hours in deep discussion with them, but finally, when they had reassured him once again that they would follow his instructions to the letter, nothing remained for us to do but wait for night to fall, and we left the station.

Once out on the street, we stood together in silence, side-by-side, the crowd swarming around us. It had been raining, and the cabs and delivery carts which passed splashed the pavement before our feet with muddy water. Over everything hung the distinctive malty smell of the city, arising from its many breweries.

All of this was noted with the part of my brain which Holmes tried continually, with some small success, to render as observant as his, but they were mere incidentals. The central part of my attention was concentrated on the man beside me, and I knew without needing to look that the same could be said of him.

Then Holmes leant closer to me, and said in a low voice "Watson - "

I knew what he meant to say without needing to hear it. "Come with me. I know a quiet place."

A short bus ride took us out of the city, and to the shores of the Firth of Forth, the coastal inlet near which Edinburgh is built. We left the main road, and walked down toward the water. We now found ourselves on a long deserted stretch of path, with the firth on one hand and dense deciduous woods on the other. In one direction the coast stretched along until the open sea. In the other, we could see tiny, stick-like figures swarming over great piles of steel that reached from the water towards the sky. Holmes' interest was immediately sparked, of course.

"They're building a railway bridge," I explained. "It will be the longest in the world, apparently."

However the construction site was far in the distance, and here we were quite alone.

We soon came to the place I had had in mind, a boatman's hut where I had sheltered once when caught in an unexpected downpour. It was clear that no one had passed this way in months. There were no tracks in the ground before the door, and small climbing plants grew undisturbed by the threshold. Inside there was a wealth of old ropes and crates, and even some mouldering cushions on the wooden bench by the wall. I pushed these aside and sat down, as my leg had been demanding for quite some time now.

Holmes remained upright in the middle of the floor. Although he must have been ruminating on what he would say throughout our walk, it nevertheless took him a few moments to begin hesitantly to speak.

"I know I have no right to ask anything of the sort, Watson, but I wish - I would like - that is to say, I find I cannot bear the thought of letting you go into danger tonight with your last thoughts of me being that I am a heartless bastard."

"I assure you, I don't think that."

"And yet I suppose it is true."

"It is far from true, Holmes! I believe I know you better than that - despite the evidence you have furnished to the contrary today."

He winced at that. "I feel heartless, nevertheless. My reason tells me that it is wrong to risk ruining your life through my foolishness, even when I am perfectly happy to risk my own life. My reason will always win, Watson, no matter what my heart holds."

"No, I must protest, Holmes! You're just playing with semantics. You wouldn't care about ruining my life if you didn't have a heart."

"I am afraid you must think my depth of feeling is less than your own, when that is far from being the case. Indeed it could not be deeper." He had begun to pace back and forth, but now he came to a halt, and stood looking down at me, one hand pressed to his temple.

"I often dream that I am at your trial," he said in a low voice. "I am not on trial, only you. Sometimes, in my dream - " His voice broke. "I often wonder how many such cases end in suicide before a trial is even spoken of."

"Holmes," I said sternly. "I can promise you that is one thing that will not happen."

For once, I could read his thoughts in his face: he was plainly thinking that no one can say what the future will bring.

"Precisely," I said aloud. "No one knows what the future holds. Why, one of us could be run over by a runaway horse tomorrow, God forbid. Afghanistan taught me to live in the present, and I want to spend every possible second of that present with you."

He still stood some way away, his thin lips pressed together, his eyes dark and pained.

"Holmes, come here."

He came slowly, and sat down beside me.

"We're together now, my love. Don't spoil it by worrying about the future."

He buried his face in my hair. "I cannot lose you, Watson," he said in a muffled voice.

"Well, you're certainly doing a bloody good job of driving me away." I said it gently, taking his hand in mine and kissing it.

We sat in comfortable silence for a long time, wrapped in each other's arms. Notwithstanding the lack of resolution, I felt the better for our talk, although my contentment was tinged with trepidation when my thoughts turned to the deadly risk I intended to take later that night.

.. .. .. ..

Holmes remained silent for the first part of our coach journey back to Edinburgh, although his gaze returned often to rest upon me. His face was less tense than earlier in the day, its sharp lines softened. After some time he spoke up:

"The idea does go against the grain somewhat, Watson, but I find I cannot let you go blindly into danger tonight, without knowing precisely why."

This statement left me taken aback. Surely he did not mean to suggest that he intended to deviate from his habitual and time-honoured practice, and lay out the logical path of his deductions for me before the denouement of the case! His next words nonetheless confirmed this theory.

He brought his mouth to the level of my ear to murmur them. "It is not without some sacrifice on my part, I must point out, for the expression on your face upon hearing a carefully constructed string of my deductions is almost as dear to me as that which you wear in the heights of passion - and the latter, you know, is dearer to me than sight itself."

While I was regaining my breath after this statement, Holmes went on in a more business-like tone, although I could see that he was smiling fondly at the flush in my cheeks.

"Let us hope, nonetheless, that you will yet manage to find some measure of the usual thrill in hearing the facts recounted now, before they are quite confirmed or the story complete." He leant back in the coach-seat, his sharp chin resting on the tips of his joined fingers. "It's a tangled web, no doubt, but I was first put on the right trail by the spate of burglaries in the neighbourhood, all evidently committed by someone possessing a key to each house - "

"Or who was a lockpick," I put in.

"No, no, Watson, he had a key. I first discovered proof of this in my investigation at your friends' home. The key in their kitchen still bore traces of the oiliness left by the wax used to take a copy of it. Someone was gaining access in a legitimate fashion to each of the houses, managing to take a wax impression of the house-key, and returning in the night for a more nefarious purpose. The question remained: how did he gain access in the first place? The explanation rapidly became evident: the neighbourhood is of recent build, and therefore carpet fitters, cabinet makers and the like often have occasion to call."

"Cabinet makers!"

He smiled fondly. "I see things are beginning to become clear to you, my dear. I presume you now understand why I said that the profession of the man from Windmyre Close was the key to the matter?"

"But the Gordons haven't had any new furniture recently, have they?"

"No, the burglary at the Gordons' was a little different - and it was that fact which led to the death of the unfortunate young man in their hallway. The difference at the Gordons, you see, was that they have in their employ Margaret Donnelly, who was already being used by Brodie, the cabinet-maker, as an intermediate between himself and the locksmith who cast the keys - we saw her take the wax impression of a key at the end of that meeting in the kirkyard, in fact. Now for some unknown reason - perhaps business was a little slack - Brodie decided that Margaret Donnelly's employers would also prove a profitable target, and ordered her to procure for him a copy of their house-key."

"And she was a willing participant in all this?"

"On the contrary! He has a strong hold over her, forcing her to cooperate. Up until this point she had acquiesced to all his orders, but this time she was unwilling to, out of a sense of loyalty to her employers. She hoped, somewhat naively, to scare Brodie off by having someone lie in wait for him on the night he broke into the Gordons. That someone was her young gentleman, a respectable if not very successful plumber by the name of Lochie. Brodie was spooked, indeed, but he did not run away. He shot Lochie."

"How horrible! But I don't quite understand. She knows who killed her young man, and kept her silence - and even went on helping his murderer?"

"He has a very strong hold over her, as I said. You see, he knows her secret. She has a child."

I looked up sharply. "Out of wedlock, you mean."

"Yes. I had already guessed as much when Brodie referred to the child in the kirkyard. It is apparently almost a year old now. With her stout figure it was not difficult to conceal her condition from her employers, and when the child was born her sister came up from their village to take care of it. Donnelly supports her and the child in abject poverty on her wages. You can readily comprehend what a disaster it would be for all three of them, were her employers to learn of her supposedly immoral behaviour; they would dismiss her instantly from her position. I expect you can see why her mother's instinct is taking precedence over her desire for revenge on the man who killed her young suitor, although she has shed a great number of tears over him."

"He's - not the father?"

Holmes shook his head. "I did not pry into details, or try to deduce them. I do have some common decency, you know. But apparently young Lochie the plumber was aware of her family situation, and was hoping to marry her all the same, as soon as he had gained a sound financial standing himself." He shifted in his seat. "I think you can understand now why I am anxious to bring Brodie to justice without Miss Donnelly having to testify, or be involved in any way."

Although I agreed, I said cautiously: "Even though she was an accessory to so many crimes?"

"All arising from one foolish mistake which ruined her life, and which has already punished her a thousand times over. I think you and I can readily comprehend the mental suffering of someone who lives in constant fear of drawing the harsh condemnation of our so moral society. I didn't put it to the police in quite those terms, of course."

He paused, scowling, and I knew he was brooding again on the risk we ourselves ran.

My mind was filled rather with the details I had just heard of the case. "Isn't there a risk that Brodie will divulge her secret anyway when he knows he was betrayed by her?"

Holmes shrugged. "There is no reason why he ever should know. It seems that he has an entire network composed of people like Margaret Donnelly, from whom he forces collaboration by means of threatening the disclosure of their darkest secret. It could have been any of them, or none. Indeed, the object of our plan for tonight is to capture him without necessitating the testimony of any of his victims. In any case, I already have the police's assurances that they won't prosecute Donnelly or indeed bring her into the trial at all, in gratitude for her cooperation. And being seduced out of wedlock, unlike other supposedly immoral acts, is not a criminal one. There is no reason that the story should ever reach the Gordons' ears."

At this point the coach came to a halt at the Haymarket. We climbed down, and walked slowly back to the Gordons, Holmes' arm in mine. I knew that the risk I would take that night weighed as heavily on his mind as on mine - indeed probably more so - and I tried to entertain him by recounting the stories of some of the recent popular literary works to come out of Edinburgh. This gave him the opportunity to scoff at tales of cut-throat pirates and Robin Hood's merry men, and thus we both passed a very agreeable half an hour.

It was not until that night, when we were installed with two stout policemen in our hiding place in one of Edinburgh's most luxurious town-houses, that Holmes made an oblique reference to our earlier conversation.

"Thank you with all my heart, Watson," he murmured in my ear.

"For what?"

"For taking me to the Firth of Forth," he said obliquely, ever mindful of our two companions, "instead of leaving me alone as I deserved."

"Don't be ridiculous, old chap."

I felt him briefly and silently grip my arm in the dark, before we all settled in for the wait, the atmosphere fraught with tension.

Fortunately for the state of all our nerves, Brodie soon made an appearance. He recognised me the moment I stepped out of the shadows into the beam of his lantern, but he did not seem in the slightest bit ruffled. Instead he aimed coldly with the pistol which was already in his hand, and it was all I could do to dive out of the way in time, the bullet missing me by a hair's breadth. Holmes and the police then leapt on him from behind, and all was confusion and noise for a minute, a chaos of grotesque shadows cast by the lantern which was tossed from side to side in the fight.

Finally the man was subdued, and I felt Holmes clasp my shoulder in the darkness.

"Not hurt?"

"Not a scratch."

"Thank God!"

At this point someone lit the gas-lamps in the room, plunging us into light, and Holmes let go of my arm.

Now we could finally look into the face of the burglar, extortioner and murderer. He was a mild-faced, middle-aged man, slightly overweight, and it was easy to see how he passed in daytime for a respectable cabinet-maker and guildhall member. Only his cold hard eyes spoke of the depths of depravity which lay behind that innocuous mask.

The owners of the house had dared to venture onto the scene by this time, and we thanked them for their cooperation and apologised for disarranging their library and disturbing their sleep, while the police marched Brodie away.

.. .. .. .. .. .. ..

We were obliged to remain in Scotland in order to testify at the trial, and by the time we finally set foot in Baker Street, it was over a week since we had first left.

I retired directly to my room, for I had slept poorly on the sleeper, one of our fellow passengers being a very noisy snorer.

When I descended to the sitting room a few hours later, Holmes was curled up in his armchair, a book lying abandoned in his lap. He had obviously intended to read, but been overcome by sleep.

I stood at the foot of the stairs, savouring the sight of him. His long gaunt face was relaxed in sleep as it never was in waking, his ever-active hands still, his body at peace. I was simply glad that we were both here together in Baker Street.

We had not had a great deal of opportunity to speak alone since the night of Brodie's final burglary, what with the business of the trial, and all the social events the Gordons had wanted to hold or drag us to, in the euphoria of having the origin of the corpse in their hallway explained. I had enjoyed seeing old friends and acquaintances, of course, but I felt all the while the tension of a long-overdue conversation with Holmes ahead.

He stirred, and his eyes flickered open. His face lit into a smile upon seeing me. "Won't you come and sit a while, Watson?"

I did not join him in his armchair, but sat in my own chair opposite, on the other side of the fireplace.

Holmes filled and lit his pipe, his gaze returning often to my face as his nimble fingers went about their work. I met it each time with a smile.

On most evenings, he would have stretched out his long legs before the fire, the picture of ease. Tonight, however, he was sitting upright, his entire posture filled with tension. Finally he spoke up, his words emerging slowly. "If ever again, God forbid, you should chance to be injured in the course of an investigation, I hope I shall manage to behave with a little more restraint." He swallowed, a hint of nervousness in the action. "That is, if you will ever agree to accompany me again."

I knew that was the closest I would ever get to an apology.

I was simply glad to know that he had managed to find some kind of equilibrium in his mind over the past week, and that his ever-present paranoia would not spell the end of the happiest period in both our lives. I hastened to reassure him that the overture of peace was heartily accepted.

"I know we will never be free from fear, Holmes," I added. "But I am quite determined not to give you up, so it is a damned good thing you don't intend to try."

He relaxed, and sat back in his chair, stretching out his long, lean legs. "Sometimes I dream that we could be free, one day," he said in a lighter tone. "When we have grown so old and frail that we can no longer run around after the dregs of the underworld, perhaps we shall retire to the depths of the countryside, and live quite alone, without even a housekeeper - no one at all to disturb us. You will write, and I shall - watch birds or grow prize marrows or some such thing, and we shall spend days and nights on end together, without the slightest fear of discovery."

I was grinning, enjoying the rather incredible image of Holmes tending to something as boring as watermelons. "Do you really think that's very likely, my dear fellow?"

He stiffened. "I'm sorry, I should not have assumed - how presumptuous of me. Do forgive me, Watson."

I saw he had misunderstood me, and hastened to reassure him. "No, no! I did not mean to suggest that the future you described was unlikely in its entirety - or unappealing."

 _However..._ , I thought suddenly, an oft-suppressed fear coming unbidden into my head. I told myself that if this were a night for revelations, then now was the time to speak up, and did so in a rush, before I could lose my nerve. "However, sometimes - sometimes I fear that this cannot last forever - that you will tire of me. After all, I am a very ordinary man, and you - why, my dear fellow, you are Sherlock Holmes!"

He made an impatient noise in his throat. "Yes indeed, I am Sherlock Holmes, as you so dramatically exclaim - surely the most heedless, unintentionally cruel man you have ever known. Why, from day to day I live in dread of the possibility that one of my thoughtless comments or actions will drive you out the door. I did not even dare to hope that we would last as long as we have, in fact."

In the pause that followed, we both digested the other's words.

Taking a deep breath, I said slowly: "You must promise not to laugh when I manage to write thrilling and romanticised adventure stories of your trials and tribulations with your marrows."

He understood the vow of commitment behind the light-hearted words, and his eyes gleamed.

"I shall look forward to it," he said simply.

.. .. .. .. .. .. ..

Later that night, I was pleased to discover that Holmes had not lapsed into his usual post-case languidness, but was rather in high spirits. Indeed I had occasion to be thankful for the nap I had taken earlier in the day, for otherwise I should surely have collapsed in exhaustion, such exertions did he put me through.

After, I closed my eyes and stretched out luxuriously, enjoying the warmth of the bed and Holmes' favourite past-time of running his fingernails gently over my chest. After some time his fingers descended to my stomach, and their movement became slower and more exploratory. Indeed, he almost seemed to be poking and prodding me in a thoughtful, clinical fashion, reminding me that my stomach was already showing the signs of a year of peacetime living and abundant London fare.

I opened one eye to give him a baleful look. "Holmes, I swear, if you are thinking that you are looking forward to years of correlating my ale consumption with my growing waistline - "

His fingers stopped moving, in a distinctly guilty fashion, and I took this as sufficient proof to justify a retaliatory leap at him. However he had been prepared, and instead of dealing some well-earned retribution with the feather-filled bolster, I found myself flat on my back, my arms pinned down and Holmes stretched at full length over me, his face the picture of feigned innocence.

"But Watson, it is such a golden opportunity for a long-term study! Why, I could take repeated measurements over - four or five decades at least! You cannot deny me this contribution to the advancement of knowledge."

Instead of the explosion of ire he was trying teasingly to provoke, I found myself grinning foolishly.

He raised an eyebrow. "Really, you agree? I was chaffing you, you know."

"No, no, I was merely thinking - four or five decades together."

Soon he too was grinning foolishly. "We're only just beginning, you and I," he said in a voice tinged with awe. Then his expression segued into into something much more earthy. "That will be an awful lot of sleepless nights," he added in his lowest voice, lowering himself down onto me and capturing my mouth with his.

...

Fin

...

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the true tale of Deacon Brodie, an Edinburgh cabinet-maker and respectable city councillor by day and thief by night, who was eventually hanged on his own gallows, about a hundred years before the time of Holmes and Watson.
> 
> Towards the end, Holmes is scoffing at books by Robert Louis Stevenson and Walter Scott, both of whom were born in Edinburgh. So was Arthur Conan Doyle, of course, but luckily Holmes doesn't know that!


End file.
